


put your head on my shoulder

by frankie_31



Series: The Marvelous Adventures of sub!Q [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Indulgent, pre-D/s vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 15:51:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/frankie_31
Summary: Self-indulgent as hell. Eliot wants to take care of Quentin. In every way possible. Quentin wants to be taken care of.





	put your head on my shoulder

It’d been three days since Q had left his room. He’d called out a quiet I’m fine each time Eliot had knocked but the door was locked all the same. 

Three days was enough. Eliot armed himself with a water bottle and an orange, tucked under his arm so he could cast a quick unlocking spell on Quentin’s door.

Quentin didn’t stir as Eliot nudged his way in, the heady odor of stale sweat wafted over him and he quirked his mouth. He should’ve come earlier. 

“Hey, chickadee,” he said softly as he made his way around the bed. Bloodshot, bleary eyes met his and he sunk to his knees beside Quentin. “It’s time to rejoin the land of the living.”

Quentin didn’t say anything, just rolled away from Eliot. He pulled the blanket right around himself. “Just go, El.”

“I will happily leave,” Eliot said, pulling himself up to sit on the bed. “Once you’ve eaten and taken a little tiny shower.”

“No,” Quentin’s reply was muffled through the blanket. 

“I think yes,” Eliot said and leaned back against the headboard. He made quick work of the orange peel, the citrus mixed strangely with Quentin’s body odor. 

“That smells good,” Q said. There was a pause and then he sat up and turned back to Eliot. “Fine. Um, thank you.”

Eliot wordlessly handed over the peeled orange. He waited for Quentin to get down a few slices then offered the water bottle. Quentin’s hair was ratted on the side. 

“Can I fix your hair? You’ve moved past rat nest straight onto rat loft.”

Quentin didn’t answer immediately, he was draining the water bottle in hurried gulps. When he finished small rivulets of water dropped down his chin. “How?”

Eliot simply waggled his fingers in response, he knew a quick untangling spell. Quentin shrugged and went back to his orange. 

***

Getting Quentin into the shower wasn’t hard. Eliot left him to it while he put the bed clothes in the wash and cracked the window. Quentin was in the shower for awhile, so Eliot took it upon himself to pick out a suitable change of clothes. 

He knocked on the ensuite door, Quentin called for him to come in. 

“Got some clothes for you, sweetie,” he said and set them on the counter. Quentin poked his head through the curtain and graced Eliot with a small, crooked smile. 

“Thanks, El,” he said over the water and disappeared behind the curtain. 

Eliot took a prim seat out on the bare mattress and waited for Quentin to come out. 

When he did, barefoot and smiling gently, he was toweling his hair dry. “Thanks again. It’s been, um, hard.”

“Hey, I fully understand spiraling depression. Been there, got the T-shirt,” Eliot said loftily, waving one thin hand. “Your things are mid-wash, so I am graciously offering my bed up for use.”

“Oh, I can’t,” Q starts and Eliot stands, shushing him and guiding him at the same time. 

“I insist,” he replied and Quentin allowed himself to be lead. 

Eliot’s room was a lot different than Quentin expected. He had anticipated classic lines and minimalism, black and white, wrought iron. But it’s not. There’s brilliant purple and orange tapestries and a rainbow of crystals dangling in the window. His four post bed has a red fringe lining it and probably thirty pillows. The floor is lined with different furs, the walls covered in jazz posters and there are potted plants on every possible shelf. 

It’s so perfectly, impossibly Eliot. 

Eliot leaves Quentin standing in the doorway and makes his way over to the record player. “Ella or Thelonious?” 

Quentin stands there, arms tightly wrapped around himself, worrying his lip between his teeth. “Um, do you have Anka? Paul Anka?”

“I think I have a greatest hits,” Eliot answered, shuffling through his records. 

“He’s always been one of my comforts,” Quentin said. He dug his toes into the rug under him. 

The record player clicked softly and music flooded the room. Eliot clapped his hands and turned to Quentin. 

“Why are you doing all this?”

Quentin’s question took him aback. “Because we’re friends? Because you’d do the same for me?”

“Well-okay, maybe,” Quentin ran a hand through his damp hair. “Or maybe, I’d get so caught up in my own bullshit I’d just let you rot and not even notice that you were—”

“Hey, hey, sweetie, stop,” Eliot crossed the room and put his hands on Quentin’s shoulders, then drew him into a hug. He rested his chin on Quentin’s head and sighed. “You are truly your own worst enemy.”

Quentin didn’t move at first, but eventually sunk into Eliot’s embrace. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned his face into Eliot’s neck. 

“Two things, chickadee,” Eliot said. “One, you haven’t let me down yet. And two? I wore my least favorite vest. Feel free to cry poignant and tortured hero tears all over it.”

This shook a laugh out of Quentin. He pulled back and looked up at Eliot, he was now making a face that looked very much like he’d been pinched by a crab. 

“Thanks again,” Quentin said thickly, tears were beginning to prick his eyes and he shoved his face back into Eliot’s neck.   
I’m 

They stood there for awhile, until Eliot’s vest had a wet patch and Quentin ran out of tears. 

“Okay, I’m going to go switch the laundry load, you tuck yourself in,” Eliot said once Quentin pulled away, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

Quentin nods at him with glassy eyes, a tight smile on his face. 

When Eliot returned, Quentin was fast asleep. He’d curled up on top of the duvet in a sad, little ball. Eliot covers him with one of his many throws and goes to find Margo. 

***  
“How’s Q? Has he grown moss yet?”

Eliot leaned over the back of couch and pressed his nose into her hair. She smelled like Obsession and hair spray. It is a great and welcome comfort. 

“No moss,” he said eventually, slinking down to lay on the couch with his head in her lap. “Just a lot of tremendously clinical depression.” 

She ran neatly manicured fingers through his hair and hummed a little. “Poor little guy. I have some Percs if you think that would help?”

“Percocets? And you didn’t share immediately?” Eliot smiled teasingly up at Margo. “For shame, Bambi.”

“They were a rainy day surprise,” Margo laughed, her face open. It’s just them right now, she’s lounging like a big cat. “I can get them.”

Eliot laced their hands together and pressed his mouth to the back of her hand. “I am positively intoxicated on you, you enchanting creature.”

“You cad,” she exclaimed in a mock southern accent. “Mmm, speaking of enchanting. You and I are due for a reading. It’s the full moon tonight. Let’s get our Trelawney on, you hot bitch.”

It was fast work to retrieve their respective tarot decks and sit cross legged on the dining room table. Margo happily shuffled Eliot’s deck, making a dramatic show of it. 

“Card number one,” intoned Eliot. “Your past. Three of wands. Strength, enterprise, discovery. Yummy. Card two. Present. More wands. Ace of wands. Beginnings. Birth of an enterprise. Fortune. Card three. Future. Two of cups. Love. Passion. Sensuality. And finally, the answer. Oh, Margo. The High Priestess.”

Eliot cocked a brow at her, “Secrets, mystery. Wisdom. Sounds like...we are going to open a fantastic nightclub, you are going to make love to many—and I mean many—beautiful boys at said nightclub and then cook the books so hot we get to retire in Havana at 35.”

“I am not only in love with this but I am also fully manifesting it,” Margo said. “Okay, your turn, my boo.”

Margo had a much more intuitive style of reading the cards. She preferred to pull all the cards and divine the message as a whole rather than the sum of its’ parts. Five of cups. Six of swords. King of swords. Ace of pentacles. 

“The cards call back to little, bitty El,” Margo said dramatically. “Coming from a loss of self, traveling to the proud and hot hunk you are today. They tell me that you’re going to be putting on those leather chinos you’ve been hiding in the back of your closet and taking charge. And, check it, you’re going to ride a golden dick into the sunrise at the end of it all.”

They dissolved into giggles at this proclamation and Eliot unfolded off the table to mix them some drinks. 

***

Awhile later, Eliot went to check on Q. He wasn’t sleeping anymore, just staring blankly at Eliot’s canopy. He sat up a little when he saw Eliot and offered him a tiny wave. 

Eliot draped himself over the foot of the bed and propped his head up on his hand. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Q?”

Quentin sat up fully and rests his chin on his hands. He sighed. “Nothing. It’s just been a hard couple of days.”

Eliot stayed quiet, sensing more was coming. 

“Usually, Julia was there to drag me out of my cave. Or James. But I don’t have that here. I mean, I should just grow the hell up and drag myself out. I just—I don’t know.”

“It’s okay to need help, Q,” Eliot said. “I’m happy to take care of you.” 

“It’s not your job,” Quentin said softly, fiddling with his sleeves. “It’s not anyone’s job.”

“Well, my dear Q, I’m applying for the job. When can I expect interviews to be held?”

Quentin snorted but peeked at him from under his curtain of hair. “The pay is shit and there’s no health care.”

“I think, just maybe...” Eliot drawled and ran a finger up the slender bones of Quentin’s foot. “Maybe, that the job would be worth all that.”

“Oh, uh...hmm…” Quentin laughed, embarrassed delight ringing his voice. “What does that job look like?”

“It could look like a lot of things,” Eliot said. He rose to his knees and crawled closer to Quentin. “It could mean I usher you in to showers and feed you sandwiches. It could mean I make you a chore chart and give you stickers for finishing it.”

“Uh-huh,” Quentin replied and leaned back a little. His eyes bobbed between Eliot’s lips and eyes. “What else?”

Eliot crawled up the bed a little further, his hands bracketed Quentin’s thighs now. He grinned languidly at Q and watched the other man give a little shiver. “It could mean I tie you up. Or down.”

“It could?”

“Abso-fucking-lutley, sweetheart,” Eliot moved a little higher and straddled Quentin’s hips. His hands slid up Quentin’s sides, up his arms, until Quentin’s hands are pressed above his head into the pillow. Quentin stared up at him, bemused but pleased. Eliot leaned down and pressed their foreheads together, felt their chests move with their breaths. “But I want to talk about it when you’ve got more than citrus and water in your stomach.”

“I guess that would be a good idea,” Quentin laughed. He pressed against Eliot’s hands on his wrists. When he was released, he wrapped his arms around Eliot’s back and tugged him down for a hug. “Thanks, El.”

***

It’s been about a week since their talk on the bed. Quentin can’t stamp down the shy smiles that quirk his mouth around Eliot. It doesn’t help that Eliot fixes the collar on his shirt, touches his fingers when he hands him drinks, holds a hand to his back when they’re standing beside each other. All gentle touches and heavy-lidded glances. 

They’ve all been in the living room for a few hours now, studying and talking shit when Penny makes an outraged noise. 

“Shit, Quentin! Your damn wards! Please. I cannot hear your freaky Fifty Shades of Eliot shit anymore,” Penny hisses across the room to Quentin. 

Margo claps once and cackles. “Q, you naughty thing. Mama likey,” she croons. 

“Jesus, Penny,” Quentin snaps. “Are you serious?”

“It’s been non-stop! Just jump his bones already so I can know peace again,” Penny bites back. 

“Yes! Ride that beautiful dick to kingdom come,” Margo crows and Quentin finally—finally— turns to look at Eliot. 

He’s got that damn smirk on his face. His fingers are templed under his chin and his long(oh God, long) legs are sprawled wide. Quentin’s mouth dries a little and he loses the thread of conversation. 

“Leave our little Q alone,” Elliot finally says, his voice rich with mirth. “He’s too good for us curs as it is. Let alone with you monsters filling his head with kinky, dirty sex.”

His words thrum in Quentin’s head like a heart beat and he starts a sentence, ends it, and tries again. “Uh, I feel like I am done being in this room. Um. Okay.”

He gets up off the couch then and walks as calmly as he can up to his room. 

There have been a few changes to it this last week. Eliot let him borrow the record player, there’s a few pillows that have migrated to his bed, and there’s a string of crystals in window. A stone and sand incense burner is on his bedside table and there’s a coil of smoke looping up towards the ceiling. He wishes, too quickly to stop the thought, that he could disappear with the smoke. 

He’s been facedown on his bed for a few minutes when there’s a gentle knock on his door. 

“Q, can I come in?”

“Uh, yes. Of course,” Quentin calls into the the mattress and does not turn over. 

He hears the snick of the door, footsteps and then a gentle hand rests on his back. The bed dips and he squeezes his eyes shut until little sparks go off. Eliot’s hand smoothes over his shoulder and traces a little circle on his neck. 

“If it makes you feel better,” Eliot says, his hand trailing up to drag through Quentin’s hair. “I am pretty fucking taken with you, Q.”

Quentin sucks in a breath against the mattress, then turns his face. He’s inches from Eliot. He studies Eliot’s pant’s pattern very closely. 

“I won’t pretend I don’t want your body,” Eliot continues, his hand cards through Quentin’s hair steadily. “Because I really, really do. I want your mouth and your hands and, well, probably everything you’d be willing to offer. But I would also like your conversations. And your brain. And your attention.”

Quentin swallows hard and props his elbows under him. “I want that too. I really want that.” 

He slants a glance at Elliot and finds him smiling a tiny smile. One he’s never seen before. It makes him smile and then they’re just smiling at each other like giant dorks. 

“Where, um. Where do we start?”

“Come up here,” Eliot says and Quentin’s heart stutters in his chest. He rises to kneel on the bed and leans in before his brain can stop him. 

It’s like coming home for the first time. Eliot matches his kiss, folding around him like a quilt. One of his hands cradles the back of Quentin’s skull and the other tugs Quentin in. He’s wrapped up in Eliot, tangled and oh-so blessed for it. The kiss is chaste,warm, gentle, perfect. Quentin can’t help the little sigh that escapes him and Eliot makes a low noise in return. 

The first warm slip of Eliot’s tongue kills at least five hundred brain cells and Quinten goes a little crazy trying to crawl into Eliot’s lap. Eliot falls back on the bed then seems to change his mind and surges back up to meet Quentin. He’s got his hands low on Quentin’s hips now, Eliot’s mouth moving on his jaw, his neck. 

It’s heated and feverish and thrilling and Quentin knows he’s going to put out if it doesn’t stop soon. 

He pulls back with a gasp, breathing hard and positive his hair is a haystack. Eliot’s pupils are huge, his throat flushed and he groans, deep and dirty, and Quentin is diving back in before he can stop himself. 

It takes a few minutes for him to surface again and he pulls away reluctantly. 

“Oh, no, why are you stopping,” El peppers his throat in kisses and pulls him more firmly into his lap. “Get back here, baby.”

Baby. A surge of heat hits the pit of his stomach and he closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. “Hold on, please.”

Eliot slows and leans back on his elbows. His shirt got unbuttoned halfway at some point and his milky chest is blushed up so nicely. Quentin splays his hands over the blush and closes his eyes. 

“What’s going on, chickadee,” Eliot says softly and Quentin looks down at him again. 

“I want this,” he says. “But I want it to be, um, special. I guess. That’s —wow— really cheesy.”

“Not cheesy, Q. Not at all.” 

“Okay. I—I want this to be more than sex. More than grinding in our pants. I want to see all of you the first time we’re together.”

Eliot gives him that little, secret smile again, “I think I can oblige that.”

“Good. That’s not to say I wouldn’t mind more kissing. Lots and lots. Too much, one might argue.”

Eliot gathers him up in those long arms and pulls him in tight. 

***

It’s a few hours later when Eliot makes his way downstairs. He’s maybe humming and dancing a little.

Margo shoots him a positively evil Cheshire grin from over the back of the couch and Penny shoots him a knowing one. 

“Simmer down, deviants,” Eliot says loftily and mixes up a light and cheerful drink. 

Margo clatters over to him on her six-inch heels and leans her head on his shoulder. She’s holding a snifter of brandy and she clinks their glasses together. 

“Finally got yourself a first year boy,” she says and he wraps an arm around her. 

He kisses the top of her head and she cuddles into him further. “You know there’s only one Bambi.”

“I know,” she coos. There’s a pause, “Unless you count Margolem.”

“I do not. You do not,” Eliot says. “No one does.”

They dissolve into giggles then and make their way to the couch. He sits against the arm and Margo curls up under his arm. They hear footsteps on the stairs. 

Quentin is making his way down them, with a dumb, tiny smile and a book in his hand. 

“Hey, guys,” he says and heads towards them. There’s a brief pause and then Quentin determinedly snags a pillow off the couch and turns to sit at Eliot’s feet. 

A thrum of warmth colors Eliot’s chest and he lays a hand on Quentin’s head. He runs his fingers through Quentin’s hair and rubs a thumb over his cheekbone. 

“You comfy down there, hun?” Margo asks and tickles her fingers over his shoulder. 

Quentin curls up around his book a little tighter but she can see the smile on his face. 

“Yeah, I’m good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not quite sure where this is going to go. Maybe I’ll just dump all my sub!Q fillets in this ‘verse. With that being said, if there are any specifics moments or scenes you’d want to see the boys in let me know.


End file.
